So, on the morning of the competition, Lafranceapoil drifted to the town square. The contestants were lined up: a beard like a tangled briar patch, sideburns like frightened squirrels, and a soul patch so small it looked like a typo. The Mayor stood on a podium, stroking his naked chin.
"Still the best. Obviously."
The Mayor tried to speak, but his new moustache wiggled every time he opened his mouth, making him sound like a duck with a lisp. The crowd laughed. The briar-patch beard bristled with indignation. The sideburns scurried off in shame. lafranceapoil
"I," declared Lafranceapoil, now perched on the Mayor’s face, "am the winner. The Mayor now has the finest moustache in the land. Therefore, the prize is his. Therefore, the prize is mine. Hand over the cheese." So, on the morning of the competition, Lafranceapoil
Lafranceapoil puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese. "Still the best
"Competition?" it hissed, curling one tip into a question mark. "There is no competition. There is only me."
Lafranceapoil was, in fact, a magnificent, independent, and deeply opinionated moustache. It was not attached to any face—it had simply decided, one Tuesday, that it no longer needed a human to express its grandeur. It was curly at the tips, thick as a chestnut forest in the middle, and the color of a well-roasted coffee bean. It floated through the village streets like a tiny, dignified cloud of hair, humming fragments of accordion music and muttering about the proper way to fold a napkin.